


The Mark of R

by 0buh0



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Blood, Blood and Violence, Gen, Hatred, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Manipulation, Mental Instability, Minor Violence, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 14:25:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14936009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0buh0/pseuds/0buh0
Summary: When you're a serial killer, your mark is something sacred. When you cause enough chaos to get a letter banned, that's every killer's playground right there.





	The Mark of R

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a super short story I worked on a while ago, and I figured it was about time I finally posted something on here. I mean, who doesn't love people who pretty much starts cults, am I right? Again, this is about a serial killer, and only about him, so I hope you enjoy proud and cocky killers.

He sat there, chuckling darkly as he glared at the screen. His mark stained on the walls of the house, giving the illusion that he was there. He was not the murderer, so why do people insist on using his mark?

  
He leaned back in his seat. The police wandering around had no idea it wasn’t him. They should know when it’s him. They should know by the way he writes his mark, the way he kills. He never leaves more than one mark. He never lets his work get this sloppy. His murders are perfect. The weapon always lies where he found it in the house, the victims respected, lying as though they were merely sleeping.

  
This wasn’t any of that. This was a foul murder, used to spread the mark that he created, that he was. Yet, even though his murders are always carefully planned, never anything short of perfection, they still couldn't figure out when it was him, or a fake. They followed false idols, creating false marks, taking away and ruining his livelihood.  
He got up, flicking his thumb over the brim of his hat before shoving his hands in his pocket. This wouldn’t stand. He was the one that created the symbol. No one could use it so carelessly.

  
His mark was R. He was R and R was him. False idols threw this letter around like it was nothing. Now, the letter meant fear, despair, death. Using it was a sure way of getting yourself arrested, sometimes even killed. Put it above a door, and it will symbolize death coming to the household. Mark it on someone’s skin, and it meant that they were tools for death itself. They would commit some murder in the name of R. In the name of him.

  
It was a delightful feeling when the mark was used properly, that is.

  
The letter was thrown out of society. It was something only degenerates used. The English language was revised, some different letter taking R’s place. Thus, R became a mark of vengeance as well. They threw him away, they would pay.

  
They would all pay.

  
He opened up the door, taking a much needed breath of fresh air. He just needed to calm down was all. This didn’t take anything away from him. He was still his mark. He was still just as powerful. He was still R.

  
His symbol had gotten such a stir. He was proud of it. It was his job to protect it. He felt a smirk etch its way onto his face. The murders happened just down the street. He would go pay a visit.

  
That’s exactly what these false idols wanted. They wanted him to respond. They were calling him, mocking him. He shook, the smirk fading from his face and turning into a grimace. He felt his hand twitch. He would kill them all if he had to. It was his symbol.

  
He took another deep breath.

  
You’re alright. Nothing to be so worked up about. They’ll see soon.

He veered off the path, walking up to the driveway that led to the scene. He could already see the crimson R’s sprawled all over the house’s walls. It was pathetic really. It was dirty.

  
Police were swarming the place, walking around aimlessly like a group of Neanderthals. They were all nothing but idiots.

  
With one last deep breath, sizing up the house and taking in the entire scene, he let out a loud scream, looking at the mess of blood the false idol left behind. He began to shake, tears welling up in his eyes. He tried to back away, but the cops were already around him. Some pulled out their guns or tasers, while others ran forward, their faces twisted with sympathy.

  
One of the older cops took him to the back of a police car, leaving the door open so he could stick his feet out. Another cop handed him a cup of water, which he eagerly gulped down to stop the racing in his heart. His hands were still shaking, and he bit the bottom of his lip as he looked down.

  
A few of the cops murmured as the older one leaned forward a bit. “What’s the name, son?” he asked, keeping his voice devoid of any emotion.  
He hesitated for a moment, his heart in his throat. “Slayton,” he said, “my name is Slayton. What… What happened here?”

  
One of the other cops scoffed, looking at him incredulously. He managed to hold back a smirk. People were so caught up with the letter. “Isn’t it obvious. This is the work of R.” Despite his harsh tone, the cop whispered it, barely even getting out the letter itself, as though even saying it was going to doom them all.

  
Slayton’s gaze snapped to theirs, and he couldn’t stop the deep frown from working its way onto his face. This was not R. He was R. This disgrace is not, and never will be, R.

  
“It’s alright, Slayton,” the older cop said. “We’ll catch ‘em. We’ll catch ‘em if it’s the last thing we do.”

  
He nodded graciously, forcing himself to smile a faint smile. Just one large enough to seem as though he was happy, but still just a bit distraught. He did just so happen to walk up to a crime scene after all. An unclean crime scene. “Thank you. Thank you all so much,” he whispered, gazing up at them in awe. They were amazing. It amazed him how thoughtless these people were.

  
One of the cops smiled, and they wandered back onto the crime scene. One stayed behind, watching over him. He was okay with that. It wouldn’t be long now, would it?  
And, he was right.

  
He looked down to the floor, that sly smirk forming on his face once more as the sound of hundreds of footsteps began to echo through the air.

  
The cops groaned, a line forming to block off the house. The cop watching over him stayed by his side, though his eyes were on the massive group of people beginning to assemble in front of the house.

  
They began to shout curses, screaming in the cops’ faces. They weren’t doing enough. R needs to be caught now. R needs to be executed. Erased out of history.  
The cops began to retaliate, screaming back that they were doing their best. That it’s not as easy as the shows make it. That it’s far more complicated than they could even comprehend.

  
Both were very childish. That’s why it was easy to sneak away. The cop looking over him didn’t even notice a thing when he got up and slipped inside the house. He pulled out his glove, dipping his hand in the wet puddles of blood. It was grim, but nothing screamed R’s wrath like blood.

  
Carefully he carved his symbol onto the wall. The moment the mob broke in, they saw it staring them down, rising above them all. They looked at the man in front of it, his hand still on the wall. None of them even bothered to get a good look at him before a group ran forward, with every intention of making him suffer.

  
The moment they reached him, he disappeared, lost in the crowd that had congregated. There was a bit of confusion as one man slammed his fist into another’s jaw, believing that he was the figure that created the mark. The moment the other person drew his fist back, the rest of the mob followed. At one moment they were a full unified crowd, the next they were their own worst enemies.

  
He chuckled as he watched, tipping his hat over his eyes. The massive crimson R towering over, watching as the mob destroyed one another.

  
Slowly, he slinked away. His R kept watch above them all. It was a shame to leave his mark at such an awful crime scene.

  
But, maybe, just maybe, this new “unified” blood would fix it all, erase this sin out of existence.


End file.
